COLLINS

It was late evening, and I was running home, the rain pounding down on the city in relentless blows. And since I was foolish enough to be running through the streets without an umbrella or a raincoat, I was taking the brunt of it. I sighed in relief as I finally saw the old building and with freezing fingers, I fumbled through my pocket to take out my keys.

I thought nothing of the person curled on the doorstep. It was Alphabet City, waifs and strays were nothing to write home about. Or so I thought. Numb fingers refused to obey, and I dropped the keys. The sound made him jump, and he glanced over his shoulder at me, then quickly looked away.

"Roger? What the hell--" and then I realized. "Oh shit."

He looked up at me, tried to speak, and pushed tears off his face. I could think of nothing to say. Roger brought this on himself, but it looked as though he had punished himself for his mistake. He didn't need me to tell him it was wrong.

Finally, he said, "Hey," and he started to giggle, then began sobbing. His hands were wrapped around his feet which, I realized, were bare.

So Mark finally found out. I sighed. "Fuck, Roger…" I unlocked the door, then hauled Roger to his feet. "Let's get you inside before you catch something... or it gets worse."

He shook his head. He was shaking anyway, all of him shivering. "Mark... told me to go," he stammered.

I ignored him and hauled him up the stairs. Roger didn't protest. He didn't say anything, just scrubbed at his face with his free hand and tried to stop crying.

Even though I knew I warned him against this and I knew that this was an important lesson he was learning, I also felt Roger doesn't deserve this. He was a good kid, and good for Mark. If I had to, I decided, I would talk to Mark myself. Calm him down and set things straight. "How'd he find out?" I ask.

Roger stopped. He looked at me with an expression of terror and defeat, as though I would hurt him. As much as that hurt, I couldn't help but think there was something seriously wrong with this kid. "I was going to tell him," he said.

"I believe you. How'd he find out?"

"He found my license."

I tugged him up the stairs once more. "How'd he take it?" I already knew how, but I wanted to get Roger talking. I wanted to know both perspectives. Mark would tell me, and I knew he would be fairly angry when he did, so having Roger's side first gave me some preparation.

"He..." Someone needed to hug this kid. Not me-- not then, but someone and damn soon. "...threw things and, he kicked me out so I really don't think going back is the best idea..."

"I'm going to take my chances with a technicality. As far as you're concerned, you were kicked out of his room, not out of the loft. You're back because I'm not letting you sit in the rain and feel sorry for yourself." Knowing Mark, he's probably holed up in his room, anyway. "Anyway, I pay half the rent."

"Mark wanted me to go," he said. He shook me off and faced me, took a deep breath and with what was (for his teenaged pride) a tremendous effort said, "I'm scared. Okay? I'm really afraid of what will happen when I go back in there." He looked at some spot to the left of him.

I nodded. A part of me was ready to stop fighting him. It had been a long day, I had papers to grade, I did not need this. I couldn't fault myself if I sent Roger home to his mother, who was no doubt worried sick. But if Roger left, he could spend his entire life thinking that was it, never call Mark again, completely destroying Mark without knowing better. And he'd hurt himself, too.

"You're not scared of the loft," I told him. "You're afraid of Mark. You're afraid he'll reject you--"

"Why shouldn't I be?" Roger demanded. He shook his head, and I noticed a bruise on his cheek. It was faint, but it gave me some idea as to what was wrong. "Why should I set myself up to be knocked down again? Collins--"

"Roger, enough. Think about Mark for once--"

"I am thinking about Mark! I hurt him, he hates me, he doesn't want see me anymore!"

"Roger--" He turned to go, but I caught his arm. "Running away isn't going to help!"

"What is?" Roger asked. He was soaked, but something else caused his trembling. His tone was angry, but his eyes… Roger wasn't fighting. He was begging. "What will help, Collins? What will make this right, make me better, bring her back? If you can think of anything, please!"

"Roger, calm down-- Roger. You're hysterical. Just--" He began to cry again, not openly crying, but tears sprang into his eyes. He fought them back. "Hey." I hugged him under one arm. He didn't respond, but he didn't pull away either. "Roger, it's not the end of the world. Mark's angry but he'll get over himself. You two can work this out."

I slid open the loft door and poke my head in. "He's in his room, see? Come on, I'll lend you some clothes and you can stay here the night. We'll sort out through this shit tomorrow."

Roger stepped inside. "I'm fine," he said. "You're sure... I mean, sneaking me in doesn't seem like the best move. Mark doesn't want me here."

I close the loft door and decided to ignore Roger. "You can take the spare room. It's free for anyone to crash for the night. Stay here." I opened Mark's door silently, relieved to see he was sound asleep. Mark would probably sleep through a twelve-car pile-up outside his window, so I walked in casually and found some of Roger's clothes.

"Here. Your clothes. Change and go to sleep."

I was through with Roger, and relieved. I liked the kid, but… what Roger needed was a father, not a friend. And he deserved what he got. Roger lied to Mark, he perpetuated the lie. Everything he was suffering now, he had brought on himself.

This was what I told myself as I sat and listened to Roger cry.

Something he said jarred in my memory. "What will bring her back?" Her. Roger had said 'her,' not 'him', so he was quite obviously not talking about Mark. Who was 'she'? Oh, Christ, not his mother. That was too awful a thought.

I shook my head. No. Papers, I was grading papers, not thinking about Roger. If only he could keep it down!

…what a terrible thing to think. Could ya cry more quietly, please, Roger? It just sounds so thoroughly wretched. I almost like it for its utterly twisted nature.

Grading was useless. I couldn't concentrate, distracted by his muffled sobs. The "spare room" was just a hole with a blanket nailed up for a door. I stacked my papers and headed for bed.

It is difficult to listen to someone cry, and do nothing. Even more difficult is ignoring it.

After a few minutes, I heard footsteps cross the loft and a knock at the door I was lucky enough to have. What existence was this, when a door was a luxury? And of all things, a door, not even a creative metaphor! "Collins?" Roger called softly, and I realized I had been lost in thought for some time.

"Yeah. Come on in." Just don't ask me to get up…

Roger opened the door, stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. There wasn't much point keeping quiet. Nothing short of World War Three was going to wake Mark. "Um… do… do you think I could sleep in here?" Roger asked. "Just on the floor."

"Roger--"

"I sleep quiet," he interrupted. "And I won't talk, I just… just…"

"Yeah," I said. "You can sleep in here."

"Thanks!" He sounded relieved, grateful, and all I had done was give him a patch of floor. I heard him settle beside the bed. He had brought a blanket with him; it rustled and settled around him. Roger sighed, then made no sound but his breathing.

Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. And it was driving me mad!

"Roger."

"Yes?"

I leaned over and switched on the light. Roger was lying on his back, staring straight at the ceiling. His eyes were swollen and red. "Why didn't you tell him, Roger?" It was such an obvious question.

Roger's face contorted and I knew he was about to cry again, but instead he swallowed tears and said, "I don't know."

"Roger, you said, outside, that… you said something about, 'She won't come back.' Who's that, Roger?"

He rolled his head a few degrees to look at me with utter shock, as though unable to believe he hadn't told me. "I… my… cat," he mumbled. "She… died," he said. "Yesterday."

"You had a cat?"

"Yeah. You knew that. Remember, you asked about the scars…"

I nodded. "Yeah. I thought you were lying."

He squinted at me. "Why would I lie?"

"If you cut yourself."

"I'm… jeez. No. No way! That's sick!"

I backed down. "So why did you do that to Mark?" I asked. "Why lie in the first place?" When he shook his head, I told him, "Don't worry, Roger. I like you, that's not about to change. I like that you fuck up." He scoffed. "No, it's true. You've got a good heart, boy."

And Roger told me. "I never thought something like this would, could happen. Not to me. Meeting Mark is the best thing that's ever happened to me, I know that now but… if I had known then, I would have set in honest. Immediately. I wouldn't've lied about anything, but I didn't do that. If I had known, I would have… hell, I would've even told him I was a virgin." Realizing what he had said, Roger blushed. "Sorry," he said sheepishly.

I laughed, trying to relax him. Roger was finally talking to me, trusting me and telling the truth instead of defending himself. I didn't want to lose that. "Roger, it's just sex." Judging from his expression, no one had ever said that to him before. Of course, he was in high school, so half the girls dressed like whores and the bookworms were isolated because they didn't put out. Homosexuality, in Roger's eyes, was probably more defined by who he fucked than who he loved.

"Collins?"

"Yeah, man."

"I wanted to tell Mark. I didn't want to hurt him."

"I know," I told him, because he needed to hear that. "Try to get some sleep."

I turned out the light. Roger slept on the floor, but when I awoke I was holding his hand.

TO BE CONTINUED!

Near the end of this chapter I was writing alone, so I hope it came out okay!

Reviews would be awesome!